


Listen

by CommonEvilMastermind



Series: The Chronicles of the Elf and the Egg [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Having Faith, Helpful Cole (Dragon Age), Sharing A Tent, Solas Being Solas, dancing around feelings, headcannon, jewish elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 05:48:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5194484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonEvilMastermind/pseuds/CommonEvilMastermind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas discovers another element of Dalish tradition that comes directly from the slavery in Arlathan. He and Lavellan try to have a civil conversation about it.</p><p>A drabble about faith and love and listening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listen

**Author's Note:**

> So I keep feeling we're missing a lot between the Fade Kiss and the balcony scene. What the hell happened between one kiss and I love you, you are my heart? Really, Solas.
> 
> I'm writing drabbles to fit in that space, exploring how their relationship developed. Here's one for you!

Solas was grateful when the Inquisitor did not prove to be religious. Traditional, surely – she wore no shoes, bore vallaslin, thanked her pray for their bounty – but out of habit more than faith. She took the Dread Wolf’s name in vein as easily as she did her own. If she prayed to his banished kin, he did not hear. Her lack of piety soothed his spirit, but he had to question as the weeks passed. Did she deny the gods? Were they alike in this as well, adrift in the knowledge that they and they alone caused the tides of Fate to shift?

He got the first glimpse when they began to share a tent.

It was her fault, of course. They had originally divided the tents between genders but a... situation had arisen. It came to light early in the Hinterlands.

“Does your snoring not disturb you, Varric?” Solas asked mildly over breakfast. The only signs of his fatigue were in the redness of his eyes and the mug of detested tea that he clutched.

“Am I bothering you, Chuckles? I’d think such an accomplished dreamer would have little trouble with distractions.” Varric inhaled his porridge with a grin.

“In a more peaceful location, you would be correct. But with so many ill-wishers about, my sleep is lighter by necessity.”

“You’re not the only one,” Ellara muttered grimly. “Cassandra snores like a tree is falling, have you heard?”

“I do not snore!” the Seeker protested loudly from where she was scrubbing the dishes out with sand.

“Oh you very well do,” Ellara insisted. “Thank goodness for the wards and the scouts – a bear could attack camp and we would never know, not between the two of you.”

Cassandra looked grim. “Do you think the extra noise presents a danger?”

“We’ve got two cranky, sleepless mages,” Varric pointed out unhelpfully. “That’s enough danger in itself.”

“The obvious solution,” Ellara said slowly. “Is if Varric and Cassandra share a tent, which we muffle with a spell of silence.”

“Absolutely not,” Cassandra snapped.

“Over my dead body,” Varric agreed.

Ellara was remarkably stubborn once she had identified a problem and its solution. The trait made her an excellent leader and a damn pain to live with – or so Varric pointed out, loudly, several times. In the end, all it took was a late-night skirmish with a band of Red Templars – possibly lured to their camp by the noise – and the elf had her way.

“If you snore as well, I will feed you to the bears,” Ellara warned Solas as she brought her bedroll into the tent. They had sealed their companions in with a Dalish barrier meant to block outgoing sound only, Ellara with the cheeky warning not to do anything inappropriate. Varric had gagged while Cassandra threw a boot at her head.

In their own tent, Solas snorted. “While I have not had confirmation in a long while, I have never been reported to do so. And if I did, after all this trouble, you are welcome to offer me to the wildlife.”

“Damn straight I am,” Ellara grumbled. “What does a Herald have to do to get a night’s sleep out here, anyways?” Solas assumed the question a rhetoric one, watching her as she lay out her blankets and staff for ease of movement. He sat on his own bedroll, staying out of her way.

“Lesson tonight?” she asked.

“If you wish it, yes,” Solas said, pleased. “I will find you in the Fade, as before.”

“Good.” Ellara stripped off her outer tunic – cloth and leather over a delicate chain mail – and arranged it where she could put it on quickly in case of emergency. The Dalish must have little regard for modesty. Solas pointedly did not look at the thin shift that was all that hung on her lithe frame. She thankfully retained that garment, disappearing in her bedroll with a few satisfied thumps to arrange things to her liking.

“Got the light?”

Solas lay down, blankets over his chest, and doused the mage-light that hung above them. This was hardly strange at all. No different than sharing space with Varric, though Ellara most certainly smelled better.

Then his ears caught the edge of a melody.

It was muffled, consonants hidden – Ellara had pulled the covers over her head. But the notes slipped through the air, gentle, hauntingly familiar.

“A Dalish lullaby?” he asked the darkness when the song had passed.

“Of a sort,” she replied warmly, amused. “Good night, Solas.”

“Dream well.”

Now that they shared a tent, he heard that melody often. It was the first thing she did upon waking and the last before falling asleep. Always to herself, words hidden, private and soft. He did not inquire further, just listened to the notes each night in the darkness and was strangely soothed.

Until they found the missing Dalish scouts.

They had gone into the Western Approach, and Keeper Hawen worried for them. Ellara agreed to keep a look out. They found them just too late, broken on the blooded ground. Only the youngest of them was still breathing.

Ellara checked him over, hands deft and face grim. She shook her head when Cassandra proffered a health potion. The boy was too far gone. Instead she sent her magic through him, soft and green like new leaves, easing his final pain.

The boy looked up at her, swimming through consciousness. His lips moved to speak: “H-haa,” he whispered desperately. “Har…th… aan…”

“ _Harthaan, Elvhen_ ,” Elllara soothed, brushing the bloody hair from his face. “ _Elvhenan garathen; Elvhenan gasha_.”

Solas froze.

He had been picking through the carnage, trying to find the clues to the massacre. Now his heart crashed in his ears, lips moving silently. No. Of all the things – _no._

The boy sighed and did not breathe again. Ellara closed his eyes gently.

“What was that?” Cassandra asked, voice soft. “What did he say, in the end?”

“The _Harthaan_.” Ellara arranged the boy’s body so that he might be sleeping, apart from the gaping wound on his side. “The most important prayer of the Dalish. We are told to say it when we wake and when we sleep, to bind it on our hearts and hang it on our doors. When we die, the _Harthaan_ is our final breath.”

“What does it mean?” Cassandra asked.

Solas straightened, muttered apologies, and left the cave in which the bodies lay. He strode outside, into the desert, bile rising. _Harthaan_. The _Harthaan_!

It tortured him now, twice daily. He could now pick the words from Ellara’s simple melody. He seethed coming in to Skyhold, seeing the tiny wooden amulet almost hidden in the shadow of the great doorway. It choked him to think of its twin on the door of her bedchamber, of the many ways she could have bound the words to her heart.

Solas knew the _Harthaan_ and he boiled with it. It was one more Dalish lie, immortalizing and enshrining the very things they should reject. To see her say it, day after day, to see the strength she drew from it – it was a dagger in his soul.

It was Cole, predictably, who had it out of him. They were sitting as they often did, the three of them in the library. Solas was browsing a book while Cole lay on the floor, hat over his eyes, and Ellara cursed softly over paperwork.

“It’s the same words,” Cole said abruptly. “And the same song. But to you, it’s peace - and you, it’s pain. The words are the same, the song the same. How can it heal and hurt so badly? Listen, Elvhen. _Harthaan-_ ”

“Cole-“ Solas said desperately but it was too late.

“The _Harthaan?_ ” Ellara’s eyebrows raised.

“He hates it,” Cole said sadly. “Failure flies forward – a fist in his face when he hears you sing. It’s different to him – he doesn’t understand-“

 _“Enough,_ Cole!” Solas snapped. The boy looked at him, wounded and worried, from under the brim of his hat.

“Ohh,” he breathed. “You’re angry. I’m sorry. I was only trying to help. Forget?”

“Don’t you dare-“ Ellara warned.

“Now you’re both angry. I’m sorry. I’m going away.” And he blinked out like a soap bubble, leaving the two elves alone in the library.

“Solas?” Ellara said slowly. “Why do you have a problem with the _Harthaan?_ ”

“It is nothing.” The words came out cool and clipped. “Pay him no mind.”

“Do me the favor of not lying to my face.” She rose from her chair and moved to him, arms crossed. “If Cole could see it, that means there’s a hurt that needs tending. If my practices cause you harm, I would know.”

“It is no matter, Inquisitor,” Solas insisted. “If you will excuse me.” But her small form was blocking the path to the door.

“Do you hate it because it’s Dalish?” she pressed, relentless. “The Keepers tell us the _Harthaan_ dates back to Arlathan itself –“

“I _know_ it does,” Solas hissed. “I was _there._ In - in the Fade,” he backpedaled. “I saw how the _Harthaan_ came to be and that the Dalish still sing it – to hear it from _you_ every blighted day. You say the words like treasure when they are poison, meant only to ridicule, to enslave-“

“What are you talking about?” she said, incredulous.

“The blighted _Harthaan!_ ” he snarled. “Listen, Elvhen – Elvhenan is everything, Elvhenan united. Propaganda! They forced them to sing it – the slaves, the beaten, and oppressed – to acknowledge that their masters were the world eternal, that there was nothing for them outside of bondage! Their very syllables degrade you. Every time they pass your lips they mark you as a slave.”

His words hung like crystal in the air between them. Ellara took a deep breath. “Solas,” she said as if to a small child, “that’s not what it means at all.”

“Ah, yes.” His voice was low and bitter. “How could I, a simple apostate, have anything to contribute to the wealth of knowledge of the Dalish?”

“That’s not what I said and you know it,” Ellara snapped. “That’s not what it means. Means, Solas, here in the present, to me.”

“Wishing something different does not make it so.”

“And thinking things stay constant does not make them so!” She sucked in a breath, lowered her tone. “Solas. It has been thousands of years since Arlathan. In that time, everything has changed.”

“So it’s origins of oppression do not bother you?” Solas asked pointedly.

“Of course they do!” Ellara hissed. “I will likely be quite upset in a moment, once it actually sinks in. But I am trying, right now, to explain to you why the _Harthaan_ is important to me.”

“I would be delighted to hear it,” he said coldly, mocking.

Her jaw set like stone. “My beliefs are just as important, just as valid, as any other elf’s in the time of Elvenhan. Maybe more, because I am still around to live them! If you wish to hear them, fine. But I will not waste my breath on ears already closed.”

Solas watched, furious, as Ellara stormed from the library, leaving him alone in the dead words and the dust.

He meant to leave it there, another stone in the wall between them. Another reason why he must strive ever onwards to his goal. But as the days passed and he sketched and he read and he dreamed, her final accusation wouldn’t leave him alone.

_I will not waste my breath on ears already closed._

The accusation bit deep. How many times had he uttered it’s twin? How many times had he sworn in aggravation at those who were unwilling to hear him, to even consider what he had said?

It didn’t help that Cole gave him a disappointed look each times their paths crossed. “I thought you would _listen,_ ” the boy said sadly.

So Solas stood at the door to the Inquisitor’s chambers, holding a report that he could have easily passed along through Josephine. He nearly knocked, turned away, cursed, and rapped on the door before he could change his mind.

“It’s open,” a familiar voice called. Solas went in.

The Inquisitor was sitting on her bed in the middle of a bird’s nest of reports, tactics, troop movements, maps, and books. She had a quill behind her ear and a smudge of ink on her cheek. She did not look up from a sheaf of paper as he entered.

“Do you still have Harding’s account from the Fallow Mire?”

“I fear I do not,” Solas responded. She looked up at him and blinked like an owl.

“You are not Liliana,” Ellara said. “And you don’t have my report.”

“As astute as ever, da’len.” Her shoulders relaxed a fraction at the nickname.

“I do my best,” she sighed. “And remain a constant disappointment to my teachers and hahren.”

“Never that.” It slipped out of his lips without permission. He coughed as she stared at him. “I have my analysis on the effect of red lyrium on spirits, as you requested.”

“More cheerful reading,” Ellara said stoically. “You can put it on that table.” The place in question was mostly free of clutter. He did not take his leave.

She looked at him curiously, setting down her reading. “Is there more, hahren?”

“Forgive me.” The words, seldom used, felt odd on his lips. Perhaps he used them less than he should. “For earlier. You listened to my beliefs and I did not return the courtesy of hearing yours.”

“I could have said it differently,” Ellara admitted wryly, running a hand through her hair and setting it in further disarray. “You don’t react well when you think someone is doubting you.”

“A character flaw that I am working to address.”

“Thank you.” His heart skipped a beat with those two words. She stood up on her huge Orleasian-style bed and held out a hand. He took it, giving her the support she needed to leap across the piles of paper and on to the floor. She stumbled on the landing and he caught her briefly, steadying her before letting go.

Nothing improper in the least.

She crossed to the great bear rug that sat in front of her stone fireplace, motioning for him to join her.

“Tea?” she asked, swinging a kettle over the flames. “No.” she corrected herself without prompting, sinking cross-legged to the floor.

He joined her, sitting so they faced each other and the warmth from the fire warmed one side of him. She tilted her head to one side, unspeaking. Expecting him to start, then.

“Why…” Solas found it hard to look at her, look in her eyes, how they danced, warm and amber, in the flame. “Why do you say the _Harthaan_?”

“ _Harthaan_ , Elvhen,” Ellara quoted. “That’s the first part. We agree on that one right? – Elvhen, all of us, pay attention. Listen.”

“That is my interpretation,” he agreed.

“Then it gets complicated.” She bit her lip, thinking. “ _Elvhenan garahnen._ Elvhenan is all; Elvhenan is everything. Everything in the world is Elvhenan.”

“The mark of a conquering civilization,” Solas said bitterly. She gave him a long look. He flushed slightly. “My apologies.”

“ _Elvhenan gasha._ Elvhenan is one – complete, whole, entire. One thing.”

“The first part restated – a reiteration of dominance and unification.” Solas interpreted.

“Not at all,” Ellara countered. “Not to me. What it means. Elvhenan is everything – but the meaning can be switched: everything is Elvhenan. It’s saying that everything, the whole world, all of the people within it – _everything_ is Elvhenan.

“And the next part,” she stumbled forward over Solas’ irritation. “Elvhenan is one. Everything is Elvhenan and Elvhenan is one. But that means _everything_ is one, don’t you see? Everything, every person – the boarders we make between ourselves, the ones that mean _us_ and _them_ – it’s all one. All the distinctions we make are nothing more than comforting illusions. _Elvhenan garahnen, Elvhenan gasha_ – it’s saying all those barriers, those boundaries, they’re not real. Everything is the same, united, all of us, all the world.

“And if that’s true, that changes everything, Solas. There is no such thing as human or elf, spirit or demon, this world or the Fade. We’re all _one._ So when we hurt each other, kill each other, we’re only killing ourselves.

“ _That’s_ why it’s important, Solas. That’s why it’s so important that I say it morning and night and I bind it to my heart and I hang it on the doors. Because I need reminding. Especially here, where it all seems so different, all the people and the customs and the beds and the food - but it’s worth it. It’s worth protecting. I need reminding _Elvhenan gasha_ – we are all one. These people, no matter how strange, are my people. These people are _me._ ”

 Her hand drew wide shapes in the air, her face open and fervent and there, _there_ was the faith that sustained her. That the world, despite its cruelties, was a whole, beautiful thing. That it was worth saving.

He almost could not bear meet her eyes. Their brightness blinded him.

“I admit I have never heard such an interpretation,” he found his voice saying. “I begin to see why you take such joy in it.”

“Not joy,” she said ruefully, falling back on the fur to look at the ceiling above them. “Comfort, perhaps. Duty?” The fire crackled. Then, softly, “Maybe sometimes joy.”

“It is a beautiful notion,” Solas said lowly. “I did not think that something so ugly could be so transformed. Do all the Dalish share it?” The light slid softly over the lines of her. Her vallaslin. Again and again she took the twisted and made it beautiful.

She shook her head softly, and her hair gleamed red in the firelight. “Mamae does. Babae too, I think. Eravun… Eravun did.”

A lover? Someone close, someone who was gone. Someone who’s memory dimmed the fire that sparked in her eyes.

“Would that interpretation be more common,” Solas said, watching her. “I feel the world would be a different place.”

“So the _point_ is – “ she stuck a finger in the air vehemently “- we use the power of the Inquisition to make everyone say the _Harthaan_ and tell them what I think it means. No, that’s too complicated. New Inquisition rule: everyone, day and night, must say these words: “We are all the same. We vow to stop killing and hurting people.”

“And the darkspawn? Corypheus?” he challenged.

Her hand fell over her eyes. “Maybe they’re the ones who need to hear it most of all.” Then she sat up, energy returned. “So the _point_ is when I next meet Corypheus, I just yell the _Harthaan_ at him until he wises up and goes away.”

“Those in power seek more power. They do not wish to hear that they are the same – they wish to rise above, to conquer. Additionally, those without power would struggle to understand why they must suffer, if we are all one.” Her idealism was beautiful and dangerous – he forgot how young she truly was.

“I’d like to know that one, too.” Ellara scowled. “So let me know if you find any leads.”

About to promise, Solas bit the words before they left his tongue. He changed them. “I will do what I can.” He knew far too well why so many of Ellara’s Dalish had suffered, knew the cause of the suffering of all the elves.

“I should return to my duties,” he said, standing up in a manner that was not too abrupt – or so he hoped. Ellara sighed in agreement and took his hand. He helped her up and she came to her feet just close enough to kiss. Close enough to catch her scent, of tea and leather and sunshine. Her hand was warm and strong in his own.

She took it back and ran it through her hair, the moment broken. “I should finish those reports before bed. If I get to sleep early enough, may I join you in the Fade?”

“I – yes.” Solas smiled. “If you wish it. Though I would think you grow weary of an old man’s stories and his constant correction of your speech.”

“It’s my own fault.” She crossed to her bed and started arranging her nest into rough piles. “I’m the one who asked you to teach me Elvhen. If I didn’t want you grumping at me, I wouldn’t ask.”

“I am pleased to hear it.” He moved towards her door, finding it difficult to turn toward the cold dark of the stairwell. “Dream well, da’len.”

“Good night, Solas.” She flashed him a half smile before turning away. He let himself out, going down the stairwell, finding retreat in his rotunda.

But he sought the Fade earlier than usual that night. Just in case she were to join him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm willing to entertain the idea that the Elves aren't a thinly-veiled analogue to the Ashkenazi Jews, but you'd have to be reeeeeally persuasive. 
> 
> Something about a once-great culture, fallen to the Romans (sorry, Tevinter), splintered into tribes (clans), wandering homeless for millennia while facing persecution from a monotheistic religion with a human/divine figure. Add in the ghettos (ailenages), crusades (Exalted Marches), and the isolated groups fighting to keep their traditions alive (Orthodox/Dalish), and really, must I go on?
> 
> Anyways. 
> 
> Some Jewish readers will recognize that the Harthaan is a Dalish sh'ma.
> 
> Non-Jewish readers will be confused until I tell them that the sh'ma is a prayer that many traditional Jews say twice daily and write on little scrolls that they bind to their arms and stick over their doorways. Sound familiar?
> 
> My interpretation of the sh'ma is remarkably similar to Ellara's - but what would any of the old temple Jews have to say if they showed up in today's world? What have we changed, misinterpreted? What if some of the things we hold most sacred were, in truth, really really bad?
> 
> Anyways, drabbles. Let me know what you think?


End file.
